Ooh, love (there he goes again)

[inlovewithmycar]

WHO: Crowley (inlovewithmycar) & YOU

WHAT: The Bentley has landed.

WHERE: Greenhouse, outside Casa de Gayngel, various

WHEN: Latter half of November, edging into December

WARNINGS: Gratuitous Queen lyrics ahoy. Crowley playing with the forbidden silly putty. Probably some other stuff down the line.

Starters below :3

Comments

[hypnagothic]

[ he glances back to him, eyes darting to the shapes glass. ]

Impressive. Though the use of hellfire leaves cause for concern to others.

[inlovewithmycar]

Eh.

[This is met with a casual shrug.]

The unholiness will fade after a couple days into a light malaise of wickedness. I'm not exactly imbuing anything with my Evil Essence here.

[hypnagothic]

And the plants that will be in proximity of such as your creations?

[inlovewithmycar]

You mean those unruly little delinquents?

[Crowley gives a haughty sniff.]

They didn't bat so much as a metaphorical eye at the usual threats involving the garbage disposal. Do you seriously think a little demonic miasma is going to have any effect?

[hypnagothic]

[ Dream's eyes narrow slightly, his head tilting ever so little as he considers him. ]

What is your name, demon?

[inlovewithmycar]

[Crowley can't help the defensive bristle at the tone. It's not that he's in any denial about what he is, nor does he particularly hold it against others for being unsettled by him. Demons don't exactly engender the benefit of the doubt, after all. But that 'demon' was said with a hard 'd'.]

Crowley. Charmed, I'm sure.

[hypnagothic]

Crowley.

[ his eyes remain narrowed, but the consideration behind his pale eyes eases off a bit. ]

I am unfamiliar with you.

[inlovewithmycar]

Could say the same of you.

[Crowley decides not to push his luck as he sets down the cooling glass, and gets out his tools.]

Ssserpent of Eden and Hell's former operative on Earth.

[He begins to chip out the last jagged fragments of glass from the pane before scraping out the old putty that once held them in place.]

Anyway, you're not War, Famine, Pestilence, Pollution, or Death, but you're definitely of their ilk. Where do you fall in the anthropomorphic personification category?

[hypnagothic]

Only Death is of my Family, our eldest sister, and we are considerably older than those you name as prophesied.

[ he steps closer to watch him, but he maintains a respectful distance while he does. ]

I am Dream of the Endless.

[inlovewithmycar]

A Hypnos to her Thanatos of general psychopomps, eh? Right.

[Crowley resists the urge to crawl out of his own skin when Dream steps closer. Sure, he's probably not as actively malevolent as the likes of Pollution or War, but he was the embodiment of dreams.

Which meant that he could get inside anyone's head. Have a little rummage around. Make them see anything.

Crowley decides very quickly not to get on this one's bad side.]

...Never replaced glass before...?

[He aims for casual. He's good at casual. Goes for something Dream seems curious about. Maybe he'll lose interest once he realizes Crowley prefers doing things the (mostly) human way.]

[hypnagothic]

Oneiros to her Teleute during that era of Greek prominence on Earth, rather, though of late my preference has been Lord Morpheus.

[ said almost offhandedly while he watches Crowley work. he doesn't step closer though, which Crowley likely appreciates. ]

I have, though not in such a manner. Sand is one of my tools, after all.

[inlovewithmycar]

Morpheus.

[Something about the name - Oh for fuck's sake.]

Hang on a tic.

[Crowley whips out his phone, typing in a quick message to Vanessa, before pocketing it again.]

Anyway. Sand, eh? Like in the song?

[hypnagothic]

[ he watches Crowley pause in what he's doing to bring out his device instead with an air of disinterest, but there's the slightest frown of confusion at the question. ]

Song?

[inlovewithmycar]

Uh.

[Crowley hesitates. There's a little radio inside the greenhouse he took from an electronics shop. The whole thing turned out to be a waste of time; it doesn't play anything but static unless Crowley concentrates really hard, expending constant miracles which is, ultimately, counterproductive to why he's here in the first place. The first few bars to one song, however, shouldn't be to draining.

He clicks his fingers.

The first tinny notes, crackling with static, float from inside the greenhouse. Mister Sandman sings a cheery voice, bring me a dream tonight...]

[hypnagothic]

[ Dream doesn't look away from Crowley even as the music starts to pipe up from the little radio, the stare unwavering as if he's trying to puzzle out how his demonic magic works differently from the other demons he knows.

after several excruciatingly long seconds of staring, he finally glances towards the radio, saving Crowley from his regard. ]

Ah. Yes. That is one of my names, though it is certainly older than this song.

[inlovewithmycar]

Ehh, it's relatively recent.

['Relatively recent' being less than a century old.]

So the whole sand bit is actually a thing, eh? Funny what carries over.

[Then again, he supposes, Death doesn't need a scythe nor War a sword. It's just the way human brains shape these concepts like a collective ball of metaphysical Playdoh.]

[hypnagothic]

It is one of my tools of office. How I create.